


The Batman is a Part-Timer

by timetravelingsherlockian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Hataraku Maou-Sama! | The Devil Is a Part-Timer - Fusion
Genre: Because Batman can never die, Bruce can’t cook, Bruce is Immortal, Clark is concerned, Gen, Multi, So is the Batfamily, Socioeconomic explorations of Gotham, There will be philosophy, also angst, because this is the batfam, hijinks ensue, immortal!AU, no OC/CC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetravelingsherlockian/pseuds/timetravelingsherlockian
Summary: Immortal!AU. After dying, Bruce is forced by his family to take a job as a part-time cook.





	The Batman is a Part-Timer

**Author's Note:**

> This is not finished. I have around the first couple of chapters, bits of the middle, and bits of the end.
> 
> It's a hodge-podge of different Batman universes and mythology living in that nebulous continuity when anything could happen.
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll finish it because, if I do, it has the potential to be a behemoth.
> 
> Comment if you think it's worth continuing/you would like me to post the rest.
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading!

_“Charlie, do you know what happened to the man who got everything he ever wanted?...He lived happily ever after.”  
-Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_

Bruce Wayne died six months after Commissioner Gordon retired. It was a car crash, a skid too far on January ice, complete with a corpse.

\--

One month later, Bruce Wayne woke to the glaring artificial light of the cave, a pointed look from his butler, and a uniform.

“You have an interview at 3:00, sir.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but Alfred had already disappeared.

He examined the clothes.

Cheap, polyester polo, plasticity green, with a shadow of coffee stain on its front—it looked like something Matches Malone would wear on the weekend. The tan pants were both too big and too small, having to be held up by a belt with a “Gotham Knights” buckle, whilst still showing two inches of orange sock. At least the black shoes were comfortable.

He examined himself in the mirror as he shaved. His hair was grey around the edges, but the scar above his left eyebrow was less noticeable than before, the bullet holes pocketing his chest, despite being colored by the night’s bruises, shallower. He could no longer spot the slice across his ribs that he got during his first year. 

Immortality, he mused, had its benefits.

He finished dressing and stumbled up from the cave.

\--

“Interview, Alfred?” he asked, after having consumed enough coffee.

“Indeed, sir. 3:00 pm the MgRonalds on Harrison and South West Third. For ‘Assistant Cook #2.’ Part time, ‘Mr. Kent’ would be grateful, sir. He does have bills to pay and is interested in returning to the straight and narrow.”

“Why?”

“Some have been worried that you are becoming too, immortal, sir.”

Bruce glared at him. He stared back, polishing a glass.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Master Timothy seems to be doing an exemplary job with Wayne Enterprises.”

“I can’t even cook.”

He put down the glass. “‘On site training; no experience required.’”

Bruce stared into his coffee. Then at Alfred. Then at his watch. It was 2:20.

“I’ll have the Ford ready for you, sir.”

“Of course, Alfred.”

Mr. Kent headed to the car.

\--

“My apologies for being late,” Mr. Kent said, holding out his hand, “my car had a little trouble...”

Indeed it had. If it had been any other car, or any other situation, one of his other 16 cars would have worked. But only the worst would do for Mr. Kent, so after it had rattled and ground to a halt halfway down the drive, he had crawled under the ‘76 Ford Fiesta to tinker with the transmission, earning himself a new grease stain on his pants and running 10 minutes late in the process.

Mr. Barker, Assistant Manager, looked over his walrus-like mustache to the battered knuckles, blackened nails, and oil-and-grease-spotted palm of the proffered hand and carefully placed his own in his pocket. “Uh, why don’t you just sit down, Mr. Kent.” He gestured to a plastic table.

Mr. Kent gave an attempted smile and complied.

“So...Mr. Kent,” Barker picked up and examined an application, “ **no** previous restaurant experience, **just** returned from two years in Gotham’s **penitentiary** , and your former employer, **Mr. Edward Nigma** , is currently **unable** to give you a recommendation. So, Mr Kent, tell me: why do **you** want to work for MgRonalds?”

Kent’s jaw tightened.

_I don’t. In fact, this is the last thing I want to do. I’m only here because Alfred ordered. I have five different tests to run in the Cave, three months of deep-space SONAR data to review, and I promised Damian help with his homework. And I cannot believe Dick would think I’d ever work for Nigma._

Kent smiled.

“Mr. Barker, I guess what I’m really looking for is a fresh start. To be something besides who others perceived me to be. To get out into the world and learn a new side of myself.”

“A side that flips burgers?”

Kent half-smiled. “Apparently so.”

“Do you have anything to say about your **employment** with **Mr. Nigma**?”

“I cannot fathom why I would have ever done it. And I assure you, sir, that past is well behind me.” He smiled. It was meant to be a convincing smile, and another time, another suit, it would have moved millions. But the icy eyes, boxer’s knuckles, and crisscrossed scars up his arms that continued under the edges of his sleeves made him look like a wolf.

Mr. Barker swallowed and gazed at the application. “Well, Mr. Kent,” he said to the page, “lucky for you, **MgRonalds** is looking for folks like you, part of a new—” he wrinkled his nose, eyes darting over Mr. Kent “—initiative. Second Chance Gotham, or something. Training starts at 2:00 pm tomorrow,” he swallowed again, but managed to make eye contact, “ **Don’t** be late.”

\--

“I didn’t need an intervention.”

Nightwing leaned as innocently on the Bat-computer as a kevlar-covered vigilante could. “Of course not. You haven’t left the cave for anything less than patrol or the apocalypse. Damian has been complaining to me about his increased training. The entire trophy room has been reorganized and re-catalogued—in Kryptonian! That last fight with the Riddler, Bruce—” he listed off his fingers: “five broken ribs, a punctured lung, two cracked vertebrae, a snapped tibia, and a shattered ankle—all for a basic robbery,” he turned towards him, “Five hours of surgery, for the lung alone. And he’ll be lucky if he can ever walk again!” He took a breath and looked down. “I haven’t seen you like that in years. Not since...”

_Not since Jason died._

Bruce’s jaw clenched. The lenses of his cowl turned towards the screen. The grind of his teeth joined the computer monitor’s hum; the drip of water; the rustle of bats. “It was a crime.”

Dick stared at him.

The lenses continued to stare at the screen, though his gauntlets remained still. 

“Look Bruce, I know that immortality is hard. But this --” Dick sighed, “It wasn’t just me. Everyone—” he shook his head “—Clark is worried about you.”

Bruce glared.

“I know he always is, but Bruce, this time it was different.” 

“He said—he said this was what it was like, in the other universes. This was how it started. Before --” _Before he started lobotomizing criminals. Before he killed Lex Luthor and dug out the Joker’s heart. Before he snapped your back._ “He said that you can—you can do that now.”

“Lobotomize criminals with my heat vision?”

“No. Rule humanity. Because death can’t stop you. Because immortality gets people thinking that they know better, or that they can’t bother with shit. Just look at Ra's.” 

“You can’t just stay in your cave. Alfred and Cass agreed. And so did Tim.”

“I’m Batman.”

“We agreed --”

“You **_agreed_** ,” he sneered.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “We agreed that you needed something else.”

“And you got me—‘Assistant Cook #2’? With a criminal record?” His jaw twitched.

“I thought it would ease suspicion.”

“Because no one would think the Batman was a criminal.”

Nightwing smirked, “Or an Assistant Cook. He certainly couldn’t have beat up the Riddler from prison.”

Bruce growled.

“Look, Bruce. You might be an immortal, but you sure as hell can’t afford to act like one. You don’t have a kryptonite. You need something to bring you down to earth,” Nightwing smiled, “and this gives you a good chance to learn new skills, reconnect with the community.”

“A ‘second chance?’”

Nightwing smiled.

“‘Second Chance Gotham.’ Great way to remember the old man.”

“It was Tim’s idea.”

Bruce growled.

Dick laughed. “Come on, it’s almost sunset. I’ve got the Upper West side.”

He turned towards the Batmobile.


End file.
